To Pity the Living
by Max Howle
Summary: John disappeared during one of Sherlock's cases. Not a single word, the doctor is simply gone. Sherlock isn't taking this well at all. When Lestrade comes by with news on John's whereabouts everything seems to crumble on Sherlock's life. Could his army doctor really gone? Or just out of contact? Could there possibly be any other explanation?


Yay! I wrote this a really long time ago, but I thought, 'Hey why not?' so here it is! ((I know it sucks. Writing stuff on a tablet can get really annoying.))

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Sherlock paced quickly across the sitting room, hands running through his hair frantically and eyes darting behind closed eyelids. He could feel Lestrade's perplexed gaze scanning him from across the room. He ignored the detective inspector, who was babbling about something that Sherlock couldn't care less about at the moment. There was something far more important on his mind, something that was always on his mind, but now brought to attention because it was gone. John Watson was gone.

_'It wasn't like John to wander off unannounced, '_ Sherlock thought._ 'And he probably hadn't. Being John he would have practically yelled at me before going off to god knows where.'_ Sherlock growled in anger at himself. "Stupid! Stupid, stupid!" He yelled out loud in frustration, Lestrade flinching on the couch at the sudden noise, mouth open in the middle of a sentence Sherlock hadn't been listening to.

"He may just come home, Sherlock." Lestrade said. His voice was soft, like talking to a terrified animal. Sherlock's head snapped to him, eyes open. He stopped pacing and looked at Greg. _'Black trousers, small splash marks of mud, from the front step of the flat. He had come up here in a hurry, then. Why in a hurry? He must feel I'm unstable, a terrible deduction, I'm perfectly sound. Long jacket, obvious creases from an iron, carefully done, so his wife is back with him? Yes. But she's with the man who works down at Bart's, obviously. Hair, groomed well, yet ruffled, he's stressed, running his fingers through his hair. Must be the resent murders. Not my concern. He hasn't asked my assistance on it yet._' Sherlock's thought process stopped, none of this was helping him find John.

"He may have just gone off, you know how he is..." Lestrade continued.

"Yes, I do know how he is, I know that my Doctor Watson would not have left the crime scene, he would have stayed in ear shot. He would have replayed to my texts. He would have come home by now, or called. This is not like John at all, so don't assume it is." Sherlock's words were venom but the man stood perfectly composed.

"Sherlock. Please, calm down." Lestrade urged softly.

"I am perfectly calm." Sherlock took a deep breath. The oxygen to his brain was needed, it cleared his thoughts, or rather, made them more vivid.

"Why are you here Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked.

When Lestrade didn't answer Sherlock took a swift step closer to him, only a few feet away now. "Well?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "You already know that."

"I'd like a second opinion."

"Fine." Lestrade sighed. "You were at the crime scene inside the bakery a few miles away, doing your usual thing. Strutting around calling us all idiots and saying the most innocent looking person there was the murderer. Quite correctly, as always. And then seconds later you're running around the outside of the bakery calling John's name and texting everyone, even me, when I was two feet away, asking for knowledge on his whereabouts. Then after a few minutes of this you completely stop, dead in your tracks, and go home. What the hell do you expect me to do? Sherlock? Sherlock?! Sherlock are you even listening to me?!" Lestrade yelled as Sherlock returned to his pacing on the rug, not interested anymore. The man was working a groove into the bloody floor, Lestrade could almost see smoke rising from his footsteps.

"Him?" Sherlock asked innocently. "Oh, hi, did you say something?"

"What's wrong with you?" Lestrade growled.

_'So impatient.'_ Sherlock thought.

"Nothing at all. Now go away, I can't think with your thoughts clouding in the air. Truly detective inspector, do try to think in silence, you're mumbling out loud is quite annoying." Sherlock dismissed Lestrade with a small wave of the hand.

"Then I won't speak."

"I'd prefer you left."

"And whys that?"

"You're increasingly annoying."

"Sherlock."

"You're still here?"

With that Lestrade stood with a scowl, and walked to the door. "I'll text you if we find him."

"Fine, fine." Sherlock mumbled.

The second the door closed to the street Sherlock went to the window, glaring at Lestrade as he got in the police car and drove away. After he disappeared in the black night air Sherlock jumped onto the couch, stretching his long body over it, legs dangling over the edge.

_Think!' _'Sherlock growled in his head. They had been at some bakery, a young women killed by a knife to her back. Obviously her friend being the murderer, being jealous of her money and lover and so many other boring, useless facts. And John had been growing distant as their time at the bakery increased. He had mumbled something and the next second was gone.

Had John disappeared after Sherlock announced the murderer it wouldn't be as worrisome. But the army doctor had gone before Sherlock finished his deductions, making Sherlock slightly uncomfortable. John didn't return after the murderer was taken and Sherlock had insulted Anderson, wishing John was there to hear the brilliant insults. Then Sherlock noticed the lint on the bush outside.

A small beige piece of lint from John's cable knit jumper. They had come through the entrance from the direct front, the shrub being near the side of the building, leading to the ally. Something was very wrong. Then something snapped in Sherlock mind when he had seen it. It _was_ wrong, not like John, why would he go to the ally...? John had no reason to be there... But, no he didn't walk to the alley. He didn't. No. Rather he was drug across the ground, slightly covered by the dark of night, and struggled, breaking some of the shrub's limbs and leaving the jumper lint. Someone had taken John.

But who? Who would take the small army doctor? Why? John had nothing in his name, no reason to be taken, none. Unless... Unless it were to get to Sherlock. Someone wanted something from Sherlock, but couldn't get it, so they took what was valuable to him. They took John.

Sherlock sprung from the couch and to his jacket, ripping his phone from its pocket. He dialed some numbers, hesitating before pressing the green call button. Should he do this? Of course, it's not like it was his money or coat or whatever most people hold for a ransom, this was John. He pressed the button with a grim expression and held the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" A voice asked on the other line, the sound of rustling paper in the background and office noises trailed behind the voice.

"You have something of mine." Sherlock said coldly.

"Hello dear brother." Mycroft cooed in a singsong voice, tone changing completely. "What do you need? I'm sure we can work a bargain, you see I need you for a resent case that's come to my attention, possibly treason. I'm..."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"Oh, mummy will be upset to know you're using such vulgar language." Mycroft was obviously enjoying his brother's call, knowing Sherlock needed something. "After all you never were the best child, do you like to insult out family name by being such a child..." Sherlock ignored the rest of what his brother was saying.

Sherlock considered hanging up on Mycroft, then reconsidered. John owed him for putting up with this. "Mycroft, stop your bloody rant for a second and listen. Give him back, I'll do the damn case, so shut up." Sherlock was growling at the phone as if he were a dog fighting for its property. In many ways he was.

The other end of the line was silent for what seemed like an eternity. "Give who back?" Mycroft, for once in his life, sounded completely sincere.

Sherlock's patience broke. Of fear or anger he had completely lost it. "John! Give him back! Give him back, Mycroft! Now!" Sherlock sounded like a child who was throwing a tantrum, added to the fact he stomped his foot in protest as he yelled.

"Sherlock, I'm afraid I have no clue what you're talking about. I need to go back to work..."

"Mycroft!"

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Wait." Sherlock was calm again, bringing himself back into the cold shell he was.

"Yes?"

"You don't have John?"

"No. Doctor Watson hasn't been on our surveillance records for the past months due to your request. You solved the missing executive for me, remember?" Mycroft said plainly.

Sherlock nodded, his brother's thank you for the case was leaving Sherlock and John in peace. Sherlock suddenly felt like an idiot.

"But you don't have him, physically. You're not holding him captive?" Sherlock asked softly.

"No, not at all. Is he missing?"

"No." Sherlock lied. Keeping his flat baritone steady as a small wave of worry washed over him.

"Then why are you calling? Sherlock? Are you drunk, oh of course not... Sherlock may I speak to John?"

"No you may not. Mycroft I'm not on any drugs, I'm perfectly clean." Sherlock spat his words like poison. "As is my flat." He added quickly.

"I'm sending one of my agents over. Something is wrong. Tell me." Mycroft hissed at the phone.

"Don't you dare!" Sherlock growled.

There was yelling and the sound of something breaking on the other side of the line, Sherlock smirked cruelly. The dial tone rang in Sherlock's ear and he let out a evil laugh. "Told you to watch that third agent, told you he was a spy. Sounds like he just set off an alarm for stealing vital information. I warned you, brother. You were right, it is treason." Sherlock placed the phone down, amusement quickly replaced once again with concern.

Sherlock paced back to the couch and curled in a ball, a loud annoyed sigh escaping him. "That was tedious." He breathed, _all of that for nothing to gain._ He continued his worried thoughts about John. No, not worried, logical and even, never worried.

He rocked back and forth on the couch, soon the night had came and went and Sherlock has come out with nothing but a short list. It was so annoying. It was all John's fault, all his fault for being so... So like John. The list was of the possibilities from most likely to least. Starting with Sarah, Sherlock had painfully tried to remember all of John's past lovers and where they lived. It was a tedious and mind numbing task but he had completed his list, after phoning the women and asking if they knew John's location, came Harry, who had cruelly refused to answer Sherlock's texts and calls, and then Clara. These were all reliant on the fact john had not been stolen, or had and walked away fine. Sherlock had realized the chances of John being taken by surprise in that situation was near impossible for an ex-army doctor. The list was still coming together, but Sherlock's hope was holding out he wouldn't have to get far down said list to find his friend.

Sherlock bolted up from the sofa in a blur of blue silk and rushed through the kitchen to his room. He changed into one of his many elegant suits and tossed on his long coat, quickly slipping on his scarf, even in a rush he looked like a extremely well dressed genius. He was at the top of the stairs when the door handle to the flat turned. The familiar sound of keys in the lock of the main door made Sherlock beam with joy. He quickly hid the feeling and stepped closer to the first step of the stairs, eagerly waiting as the sound of John's shoes scuffing against the thresh hold of the door filled his ears. Yet it wasn't John who stood looking up at Sherlock, smiling and saying he had simply spent the night at Sarah's, that would be so much better than this.

There Greg Lestrade stood, his face was ashy, grey, and dull, twisted in grief and pain and sorrow and no attempt to hide it because he was to tired, and knew the stupidity of trying to hide something from Sherlock, to care. It took the detective inspector a few long seconds before his eyes scraped painfully slow from the door to Sherlock, who stood emotionless on the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock." It was more a question than a statement. He placed the keys in his pocket, his gaze still locked on Sherlock. He must have gotten the keys from Mycroft before John came along, to check on him in secrecy during danger nights.

"I don't have time Lestrade." Sherlock's tones was distant. He looked at Lestrade,_ 'someone is hurt, or worse. Possibly Donovan, or maybe Anderson.'_ Sherlock thought, letting a small grin cross his lips, if Anderson was hospitalized he could sit at the foot of his bed and insult him all day long. Possibly molly was hurt, no Lestrade wouldn't come to Sherlock if it were Molly. Sherlock had a strange scratching sensation at the back of his mind, like it was someone important, but it refused to put two and two together,_ 'lack of sleep causing physical body to lack in attention and obedience, but not usually affecting in thought process. Strange.'_

Lestrade glared at Sherlock with a pitiful excuse of anger. Sherlock's small grin faded. "I don't have time for this, I need to go find John."

Lestrade simply looked at Sherlock with the most sadness he could ever show, and swallowed.

Sherlock took a few steps down, eyeing Lestrade carefully. "Why do you look like that?" He asked.

Lestrade snapped back, hiding some of his sorrow, as if being lost and now realizing where he was. "Pease, come. Please. I... They... There is a body you need to... You need to identify a body, Sherlock." Lestrade let out a soft cough. "J... John's body." The DI never struggled so much with wording.

Sherlock almost fell down the stairs. His knees buckled, he stumbled, Lestrade jumping out to catch him, but being Sherlock he caught himself in seconds. Sherlock swallowed loudly. "It's not him." Sherlock didn't even believe himself.

"We should go."

"Why me?"

"You were his best friend. And you wouldn't accept it unless you saw him yourself."

"I am his best friend. I am. Present tense. Because that block that's laying on a slab at the mortuary is not John, not my John. Let's get this over with, I have places to be."

Lestrade held the door open for Sherlock, noticing how quickly, and slightly clumsily, he moved. They both got into a cab and Lestrade, regaining his normal voice, told the driver to drive to St. Bart's. he still looked like hell, as Sherlock was perfectly fine. Lestrade's stomach flipped and he felt the same as he did when he entered 221B Baker Street, concern not even describing how he felt.

The cab pulled up to St. Bart's and Sherlock was out of it before they had even stopped completely. Lestrade followed quickly behind. They walked quickly through the building until they reached the doors to the mortuary. Molly stood in front of them, she looked small and scared, but stood protectively in front of the door.

"The body hasn't been touched since it came in. I made sure of it." Molly was quiet, but she was stern. She had bloodshot eyes, she had been crying. Her voice was cold and nothing like the sweet kind voice Sherlock was so accustom to. It was extremely unsettling.

Sherlock gave a small nod, and strode past Molly and into the clean white room. There was only one slab in the room. Sherlock approached it as if it were nothing, looking down at the black body bag, then waited with his hands clasped behind his back as Molly came up to open the ominous body bag.

Molly looked up at Sherlock, biting her bottom lip as she pulled the zipper down. Sherlock peered inside, his expression holding no emotion. He saw the familiar dull blond hair, cable knit sweater, jeans. John's eyes were closed, his head bashed in on the right side, caused by a blunt instrument, about the size of a baseball bat. The skull had been damaged, making him seem slightly less... John, but he was still recognizable. There was no doubt. Sherlock was paralyzed a moment, then held back a gasp and cry of pain. He swallowed loudly and stepped back, shaking his head slowly as he glared at the body, gasping slightly for air.

Lestrade took deep breaths. Molly had started crying, covering her mouth from quiet sobs. Sherlock focused on his breathing and stood, completely composed while he was screaming in the inside, for what seemed like hours. Molly had finished crying and closed the bag in disgust and pain as Lestrade looked dazed at the wall opposite to the door.

"That's not him." Sherlock said, his baritone eerie and broken in the quiet room.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade's voice cracked.

"It's not." He said, hating the fact he sounded slightly like a panicked child.

"Sherlock. Don't do this." Molly's voice was soft, trying to hide her pain. Failing at it miserably.

"That's not him! That's not John!" Sherlock yelled impatiently.

"Blood tests come back positive, he had a key to 221B Baker street, everything matches. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Lestrade said carefully. He took a few steps towards Sherlock as if he were a frightened animal.

Sherlock glared at him wearily. "It's not. No. It's not. It can't be. "he was saying unconsciously.

Lestrade reached out a hand. Sherlock quickly jolted backwards. "Don't touch me." He snarled.

"Sherlock, please." Lestrade said with a patient sigh.

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his coat pocket and pressed at the buttons furiously. He put the device the his ear and waited. A ringing came from the corner of the room. Molly sighed and walked towards the noise. She lifted a small clear bag from the counter and held it in front of Sherlock, a glowing mobile concealed in the bag, 'Sherlock Holmes calling' in white letters against a black background.

"That's John's mobile." Sherlock mumbled.

"It was found on his person, along with his wallet, and a few other things such as keys." Molly said softly.

Sherlock turned with the sound of bat wings with his jacket and an angry huff. He stormed out of the room and quickly was down on the street hailing a cab.

Sherlock sat silently in the cab, his fingers drumming on his knees, his mind filled with the image of the body he refused to connect and accept was John. His mind raced, trying to find a possibility it wasn't John. But he knew it was, deep down the burning pain grew with that realization.

As the cab stopped Sherlock hesitated to get out. After getting a glare from the cabby he slowly stepped out and walked up the stairs once in the flat. He kept himself together until he walked into the flat. He was halfway across the room when his knees buckled, he collapsed to the floor. He looked up pitifully from the ground, reaching out he grabbed John's coat from John's chair. He pulled it to his chest and sat up, holding the jacket. He began to rock slowly, and brought the coat to his face, it smelt like John, like warmth and tea and joy and anger and kindness and all the things that made up John Watson.

And sitting there, tears formed in the corner of Sherlock Holmes' eyes. The man who hadn't shed a single tear since he was twelve began to sob. He sat crying like the child he so much was inside. Because his friends, his best friend, his only friend, was gone. Not disappeared, not stolen, but simply gone, never to come back. Two years, John Watson had been by his side, two years now. And this is what it reduced him to, a small scared crying boy.

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~Max


End file.
